


Tech-born Pureblood

by sunstarunicorn



Series: Magical Flashpoint Side Stories [26]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Flashpoint (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Trip to Canada's Diagon Alley, first wand, mention of rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:53:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21596416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: It’s the knock on the door that they’ve been expecting since finding out their daughters are magical.  As Claire Wordsworth starts her journey into the magical world, she knows, no matter what happens, she’ll always have her family to be the wind at her back.
Relationships: Kevin "Wordy" Wordsworth/Shelley Wordsworth
Series: Magical Flashpoint Side Stories [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/576850
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. Do You Believe in Magic?

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the Magical Flashpoint Side Story series. It follows "Proving Ground – Auror Academy" and comes before "More Than Blood".
> 
> Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Narnia_ , or _Merlin_.

Wordy sighed with relief as he settled into a kitchen chair and once, _just_ once, let Shelley bring him his breakfast. Usually he didn’t like to make his wife do any more work than she already did, but after a hectic, busy week packed with hot calls and enough overtime to send the HR department running for cover, he was willing to make an exception if it meant he could stay off his feet for a couple minutes.

Shelley smiled at him as she brought his plate over, piled high with his favorite homemade pancakes, bacon, and sausage. “Scrambled eggs?” she teased, her eyes dancing at the immediate shudder; Wordy did _not_ like eggs and avoided them every chance he got.

“Very funny, Shel,” Wordy retorted, pulling his breakfast closer as if to guard it from any nearby scrambled eggs.

His wife laughed as she retrieved her own plate; their daughters already had their own breakfasts and the ungrateful brats were snickering at their father’s near legendary dislike of eggs. Wordy pretended not to hear the laughter, adopting an air of studied disregard and focusing entirely on his meal. Then Lilly tried to sneak some of the scrambled eggs from her plate onto his; Wordy whisked his plate out of range and brandished his fork threateningly, drawing shrieks of laughter from the three co-conspirators.

Lilly widened her eyes innocently. “Eggs are good for you, Daddy.”

“They’re poison,” Wordy countered. “Everyone who eats them dies.”

Naturally, this drew renewed shrieks of laughter from his girls and an eyeroll from Shelley. The brunet constable made sure to keep his fork handy for defending his plate as he worked his way through his meal, jabbing it in the direction of whichever daughter was trying to sneak eggs onto his plate and earning giggles with each jab. Shelley stayed out of it, though she enjoyed the play just as much as her husband and daughters did. He was so good with them, even when he was exhausted and probably wanted nothing more than to have another eight hours of sleep.

She was collecting the plates and debating the best way to keep the girls busy enough that Kevin could have some time to himself when the doorbell rang. Ally took off for the door, determined to beat her sisters, and Kevin hastily went after her; the youngest Wordsworth had yet to learn that just because someone rang the doorbell didn’t mean she should open it.

Shelley quickly finished her task by stacking the plates on the counter – she could put them in the dishwasher later – and followed her husband and daughter towards the door. Ahead of her, she could hear Kevin chiding Ally for trying to open the door without even looking to see who it was. Ally pouted at her father and Shelley sighed to herself; she’d have to have a good talking-to with Ally – again.

Kevin looked through the glass; Shelley saw his shoulders stiffen. “Kevin? Who is it?”

He glanced back at her, but she couldn’t read the emotions playing across his face. Then he pulled the door open, his stance subtly changing from _father_ to _cop_. “Can I help you?” he asked the woman just outside, caution ringing in every syllable.

She smiled back, but it was a professional smile with only a hint of warmth. “Mr. Wordsworth?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m here to speak to you about your daughter, Claire Wordsworth.”

_Oh, Lord, they’re here!_ Shelley realized. Although the woman was dressed like a techie, there was a faint unease on her face, as if she wasn’t quite comfortable in her own attire. Couple that unease with the barest hint of disdain in her eyes and the stranger bore all the usual hallmarks of a witch trying to blend into a world she didn’t have the first clue about.

“About what?” Kevin questioned, leaning against the door jamb and arching a brow as he crossed his arms.

Another smile, just as shallow and meaningless as the first. “I represent a rather exclusive school, Mr. Wordsworth and young Claire, it so happens, meets our entrance requirements. Perhaps I might come in so we can talk further?”

Kevin shifted to the side after an instant’s further consideration, silently inviting the graying blonde witch inside. She wore a business outfit that looked like it dated to the 1980s – at _best_ – in a fortunately fairly neutral shade of gray. Her face and frame were a bit plump, giving her an almost motherly look and her hair was carefully arranged to enhance her motherly appearance. The woman wore flat shoes instead of high heels, something Shelley approved of: flats were much better for day-to-day use than high heels tended to be.

“Ally, go get your sisters, please,” Shelley requested, sending her daughter off and meeting the witch’s eyes, a challenge glittering behind the politeness. Ally darted off, somehow discerning that her parents wanted to speak to the newcomer alone.

“What a charming child,” the witch gushed, a flash of smugness there and gone; if Shelley had blinked, she’d’ve missed it.

“Thank you,” Shelley replied nonetheless, gesturing their guest towards the living room. “What sort of school do you represent?” she inquired casually.

The witch’s expression turned indulgent. “All in good time, Mrs. Wordsworth.”

Shelley and her husband traded looks, then Shelley’s eyes widened, ever so slightly, as she realized what was going on. The witch didn’t know! She didn’t know that their family already _knew_ about magic, _knew_ that all three young Wordsworths were witches, or that Kevin was a former Auror.

The blonde woman noticed her husband’s devious smirk out of the corner of her eye. The prankster in him was coming out to play. And Shelley found she didn’t mind one _whit_.

* * * * *

Wordy leaned back on his couch, playing dumb for all he was worth. Shelley’s eyes gleamed with laughter and his daughters were covering their mouths to suppress their sniggers. For his part, the constable adopted an air of _extreme_ skepticism as the witch in front of them produced a parchment envelope with a flourish. “Magic?” he drawled. “You want me to send my daughter off to a school so she can learn card tricks? How to pull a rabbit out of a hat? Maybe saw a few people in half?”

Lilly snorted as the visitor’s expression turned indignant with a generous helping of offended mixed in. Ally opened her mouth to remind her father that they already knew magic was real; Claire elbowed her sister to keep her quiet. At Ally’s outraged look, Claire hissed, “Don’t spoil it!” as softly as possible.

Briskly, the witch pulled her wand, an action that had the brunet tensing for action, ready to move at a bare moment’s notice. Fortunately, his slight shift and tense muscles weren’t noticed; The visitor pulled a small glass orb from her oversized handbag and tapped it. The glass shifted form, becoming a glass hummingbird that took flight for a short trip around the living room. Rather than returning to the witch, the exquisitely crafted bird flitted to Claire, hovering in front of her with little cheeps of what sounded like curiosity and interest. Claire reached out, stroking the hummingbird’s head; her sisters crowded in to pet the hovering glass animal as well.

Wordy stole a look at the witch and bit back a snicker of his own; the witch was gawping in utter astonishment at the three girls and the bird. Definitely not how she’d planned her demonstration, though Wordy couldn’t see why – a _living_ glass animal? That was a near _perfect_ way to demonstrate that magic was real without scaring innocent techie families half to death. A soft chittering sound drew the constable’s gaze and he jumped; the glass hummingbird was hovering right next to his face, studying him intently.

The bird’s head reached forward, its beak just grazing his wrist as he automatically shifted back and lifted one hand to keep the animal away from his face. Wordy’s eyes widened in shock as color spread over the hummingbird, starting from the animal’s beak and sweeping over the glass in seconds. The color rapidly highlighted something else; the hummingbird, far from being smooth, unbroken glass, was almost exactly like a _real_ hummingbird, complete with glass feathers, miniscule glass claws, and an intelligent glitter in its black eyes.

“Well, upon my word,” the witch breathed, watching the glass hummingbird flit over to Shelley, then back to the girls. “In all my years, I’ve never seen such _instinctive_ control over accidental magic.”

Wordy bit back a derisive noise; it was obvious to him that the woman had _no_ idea how her creation had gained a life of its own and she was bluffing her way through as best she could. Frankly, if he had to guess, _his_ guess would be that the hummingbird’s behavior had more to do with the traces of Wild Magic around his whole family than anything his girls were doing. Leaning forward, he arched one brow and drawled, “ _Accidental_ magic? How do we know _you_ didn’t do all that?”

* * * * *

Claire jerked back in surprise as her father was dismissed as an obstructive annoyance and the witch turned towards her. Leaning forward, the woman asked, “Have you ever made anything happen? Anything you couldn’t explain?”

“Y-y-yes,” Claire stuttered; the intent expression on the witch’s face was rather unnerving to the young girl. Her Dad stiffened, his protective instincts going on full alert, and Claire knew he would step in if he thought she needed help. But she was a _cop’s_ daughter and she wasn’t afraid of a snobby, arrogant old witch. The brunet tilted her chin up, setting her jaw into lines her father’s teammates would’ve recognized _instantly_ as Wordsworth tenacity at its finest. Brown eyes gleamed and she gave the stranger a defiant look.

The witch smiled at Claire, ignoring the defiance as she held out a parchment letter. “Not many people can do what _you_ can do, Miss Wordsworth. Your talent sets you apart and it takes a very _special_ type of school to teach you how to use your abilities.”

“My talent?” Claire inquired, taking the letter, but not opening it.

“You have magic, Miss Wordsworth,” the woman explained.

“And how,” her father’s tone was scathing, “do you know _that_? I don’t remember signing my daughter up for any witchy tryouts.”

Claire bit back a laugh, but couldn’t help but notice that the witch lady was ignoring her Daddy, as if he didn’t matter at all. It made her mad to see firsthand how most magicals treated techies, but she didn’t dare say anything; it would ruin the prank. Behind the stranger’s back, her father tossed her a wink and nod, encouraging her to open her letter.

The little hummingbird hovered downwards, trilling its own encouragement as she carefully worked the letter open, trying not to destroy the seal. The brown wax seal, stamped with a Canadian maple leaf that was crossed with a quill and a wand, with the school’s motto around the outer edge, was a throwback to the days of old, when every letter of importance was sealed with wax. The parchment gave way and Claire pulled the letter inside out, opening it up and eagerly reading the contents.

_“TORONTO SCHOOL OF MAGIC_

_Headmaster: Tristan Staghorn_

_Dear Miss Wordsworth,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at the Toronto School of Magic. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on 1 September. Please give your response to the representative promptly._

_Yours Sincerely,_  
_Delia Eldorne  
_ _Deputy Headmistress”_

The young girl frowned as she inspected the letter – why was she being told to just give her response to the representative? Didn’t she have time to think things over? Biting her lip, Claire stood up and took the letter to her Dad, slipping in beside him as he glanced over the parchment, his eyes turning shadowed as he spotted what she had.

Anger colored his words. “This says we have to decide today,” he pointed out flatly.

“Yes, Mr. Wordsworth,” the witch confirmed.

Gray eyes snapped and Claire shifted back to be out of the way. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, glaring at the gray-blonde woman in their living room. Without an ounce of humor or playfulness, he questioned, “So, if we don’t say ‘yes’ right now, you’ll _Obliviate_ us?”

Claire smirked as the witch’s jaw dropped open.

* * * * *

Despite the fury rolling just under his skin, Wordy smirked at the witch’s shocked expression, mirroring his daughter’s expression. He let his sentence hang, but cocked his head to the side sardonically. _Well?_

Slowly, the witch’s chin came up, anger glittering in her eyes. “You _know_ about magic?” she nearly shrieked; her creation fled behind Lilly and Ally, chirping in alarm.

Wordy’s smirk widened, though he chose not to speak; he merely gave the gray-blonde an impatient look, silently demanding an answer to his question.

The woman rose to her feet, embarrassment, indignation, and a curious rage mixing on her face. “Well then,” she snapped, “I leave you to consider your options, _sir_.”

With a _crack_ , she was gone, leaving a bemused former Auror, three astounded little girls, and one _highly_ unimpressed mother behind her.


	2. Claire Wordsworth’s First Wand

“Well that went well,” Wordy quipped after a few seconds.

“Kevin?” There was a warning note in Shelley’s voice. Without a word, the constable offered the parchment to his wife, watching as she read what he and Claire had, her brow furrowing and tightening in visible displeasure. After a minute or two, Shelley handed the letter back. “I see,” was her only comment.

“What do we do now, Daddy?” Claire asked tentatively, her sisters just as uncertain as she.

Wordy presented the cause of the trouble to his daughter, then pulled out his phone. “Don’t worry, Claire,” he reassured his oldest. “We’re going to figure this out. Just might take a couple of calls.” With that, he selected a number and hit the speed dial.

* * * * *

Giles Onasi considered the other man’s problem, idly tapping one finger on his desk as he thought. “So, the rep ditched you _because_ you already knew about magic?”

“Pretty much,” Wordy confirmed. “I mean, we were always going to say ‘yes’, but I thought we had until July 31st – not, ‘answer now or else’.”

The Auror stiffened. “You _had_ to give her an answer right then and there?”

A rustling. “That’s what the letter says,” was the unhappy confirmation. “Lemme guess…just one more way tech-borns are treated differently?”

For close to a minute, Giles was utterly speechless. Answer now or be _Obliviated_? He’d known tech-borns were treated differently, but it had simply never occurred to him that their very _first_ introduction to his world included that disdain, prejudice, and double standards. Oh, the Auror was _sure_ that if he asked, he would be lectured on the need to protect their world from the Muggles, the need to ensure that every Muggleborn coming into their world wasn’t a threat. The wizarding world had a long memory – they still remembered the days when nearly every Muggleborn was an illiterate peasant who believed magic was evil and needed to be extinguished by any means necessary.

But still. Time moved on and most Muggles now viewed magic as nothing more than fantasy. Legend. To treat tech-borns and their families as a threat simply because their distant ancestors _might_ have been braying anti-magic lunatics was just plain _wrong_. The Auror was tired of his techie colleagues encountering prejudice after prejudice, problem after problem, and all _he_ could do was clean up the damage and futilely struggle to protect ‘his’ techies from his own world.

“What do you need?” Giles asked quietly; he couldn’t bring himself to even _try_ to justify the school rep’s actions.

Wordsworth hesitated. “Well,” he waffled. “I’d ask Sarge’s kids but…”

_Bugger._ Onasi sighed heavily, cradling his chin in his free hand. “You need someone to help you get Claire’s school supplies?”

“Pretty much,” Wordy admitted.

The Auror sank down in his seat. “I’m at 12th Division right now,” he rumbled, thinking fast. “This your only day off?”

“Tomorrow starts a fifteen day shift,” the other confirmed.

For a minute or two silence hung between the two as the Auror sorted through his options, his eyes flicking back and forth as he mentally juggled the puzzle pieces, trading one scenario for another at lightning speed. Then the tiniest of smirks appeared on his face. “I have an idea.”

* * * * *

“Constable Wordsworth! Fancy meeting you here!”

Wordy bit back a chuckle as a young man with light brown hair that fell to his shoulders joined his family, jade eyes sparkling with laughter and one forked brow wickedly arched higher than the other. “Junior Auror Queenscove,” the brunet replied, “How have you been?”

One shoulder lifted in a shrug. “Alas, the criminals of Toronto are quite united in being singularly unimpressed by my long and titled heritage,” the other drawled. “Fortunately, a few well placed spells serve to re-educate the brutes.”

“How tragic,” Wordy jibed, “You actually have to _work_ for a living.”

Neal laughed outright, dropping his haughty air like the act it was. “Amy sends her regards,” the young wizard reported. “Doubtless she’d be here, but she’s currently in the middle of a rather challenging brew that _dislikes_ stasis spells.” Cocking his head to the side, he questioned, “Shouldn’t the school rep be squiring you about?”

Sheepish, Wordy replied, “She assumed we were a regular techie family until I got a look at Claire’s letter and asked her if she was planning on _Obliviating_ us if we didn’t say ‘yes’ immediately.”

Neal sighed heavily. “Whereupon she took great offense that you already knew about magic and left you to fend for yourselves,” he finished. Under his breath, he muttered, “Why Staghorn made _her_ Deputy Headmistress…”

“She’s done this before?” Shelley inquired in a dangerous tone.

Just as Neal was opening his mouth to reply, the little glass hummingbird trilled and fluttered away from Ally, flying up to perch on Wordy’s shoulder. The young man’s jaw dropped open and he slid to a stop, gawping at the transfigured glass figurine. “Where did you get _that_?”

Puzzled, Wordy glanced between the bird and the Junior Auror. “Isn’t this how techie families are introduced to magic?”

Neal shook his head, stepping forward to examine the hummingbird more closely. The glass animal cheeped and quite willingly hopped onto Neal’s finger, flexing tiny claws and briefly spreading small glass wings. The wizard whistled softly, running two fingers over the bird’s wings. “Sure, the school reps will take something along so Muggle families can see magic’s real even after the visit, but this? Simple animations are easy enough, but…” Neal trailed off a moment, watching the hummingbird’s claws flex as the glass creature looked around at the hustle and bustle around them. “It’s acting like its _alive_ ,” the brunet marveled.

Wordy lowered his voice. “Could it be Wild Magic?”

Confused, Neal looked up. “Were Parker’s wards there?”

The constable shook his head. “No, but they’ve been around my family for the past few years…” He stopped at the pureblood’s skeptical expression and decided to keep his private theories to himself.

After a few more seconds, the Junior Auror shrugged and bounced his hand; the hummingbird flitted into the air, swooping down to Claire with a cheerful snatch of birdsong. “Let’s start with Gringotts,” Neal decided, turning to lead the way.

* * * * *

Part of Wordy wanted to leave the Lestrange gold to rot and good riddance to it. Fortunately, his more logical, calculating side pointed out that there were few better ways to spite his _sire_ and his misbegotten, so-called _relatives_ than to spend the money on his ‘Muggleborn’ daughters. So the constable tilted his chin up as he set his Gringotts key on the counter and requested a visit to his vault. The goblin teller, seeing the unhappy glint in his customer’s gray eyes, opted to sneer a bit less than he usually would and simply summoned a cart-driver.

Shelley took one look at the carts and gritted her teeth as she shepherded her daughters into the rearmost seat, tension radiating from her entire body. She braced herself to shield the girls as best she could from anything that might happen during the wild ride. Her husband, in front next to Neal, looked even less enthused, but then, _he’d_ been on a Gringotts cart before and she hadn’t.

The blonde nearly screamed as the cart took off, immediately dropping down into the tunnels at speeds faster than most rollercoasters. She grabbed the rail in front of her, her knuckles turning whiter and whiter the longer the wild ride lasted. Lilly screamed in delight, but Ally clung to her mother, sobbing; she’d never been on a rollercoaster, but she shared her Uncle Greg’s fear of heights, although she didn’t have any trouble flying.

By the time the cart rolled to a stop in front of the newly minted Wordsworth vault, the goblin driver actually looked a trifle guilty over the raw terror he could see on two of his passengers. Wordy refused to even look at his wife as he scrambled out of the cart to collect a hefty bag of gold for the shopping. He paused when the cart driver cleared his throat. “Yes?” the constable questioned.

A grunt. “Have bags for ten Sickles. Get gold from bags,” the goblin explained.

Wordy froze. “You mean I could’ve gotten that and saved a trip down here?”

The driver shook his head. “Connect to vault,” he explained. “Only here.” He paused. “Vault owner needed.”

The brunet constable nodded slowly. “Is this only good for money?”

“Yes,” came the brusque reply. “Items need trip.”

It only took a moment’s consideration. “Okay, let’s do that,” Wordy agreed.

The cart driver produced a leather bag, quickly casting a goblin spell on the bag, Wordy, and the vault. Then he handed the bag over to his customer. “Fee taken,” he grunted.

Before getting back into the cart for another wild ride, Wordy dug in the bag and pulled out five more Sickles. He shocked the driver when he flipped them to the goblin. “Thanks for telling us about these,” the constable remarked, subtly gesturing with the leather bag.

Surprisingly, the trip back was at a slower speed, with much less jostling than the trip down had been. Even so, Shelley practically shoved the two men up the tunnel and out of the bank before letting them decide on the next destination.

Neal inspected the still upset mother and tried for a peace offering. “Bookstore?”

* * * * *

Claire shyly slid the extra books Auror Queenscove handed her into her basket. Although she loved to read, the thick, heavy tomes weren’t her idea of fun. Nor were they her idea of _school textbooks_ – they looked more like the type of books you saw in movies; books that everyone admired, but nobody read.

“Believe me,” the Auror whispered, “You’ll need them. The Potions professor _I_ had expected us to know everything _he_ knew about potion ingredients.” He paused for effect, then added, “On the first day.”

The young girl made a face. “And these will help me?”

Green eyes sparkled as their owner nodded and added one more book. “This one has the basics of brewing,” he explained. Pointing to the other two books, Auror Queenscove elaborated, “First one’s for animal ingredients and the other’s for plant ingredients. Amy pretty much saved all our lives with these three; we’d’ve flunked Potions to a man without her.”

“Don’t scare my daughter, Queenscove.”

The eleven-year-old giggled at the playful look on her father’s face. Her hummingbird danced around all three of them, twittering and chirping as she inspected the shelves of books. “Emmy, come here,” Claire called. The glass bird reversed course and flew down to Claire, still voicing observations about the bookstore as she landed on Claire’s shoulder and tucked her head under a wing.

“Emmy?” Daddy questioned, humor glittering in his eyes.

Claire nodded seriously. “She’s an Emmy.”

Daddy grinned and offered Claire three more books. “Unless Auror Queenscove has more _suggestions_ for you, I think that’s all your books, sweetheart.”

The young Wordsworth smiled back as she took the books and scanned them. _Basic Defense for the Modern Magical_ , _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_ , and _A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration_. “Thanks, Dad.”

She yelped when he ruffled her hair. “Any time, kiddo,” he teased. Then he looked up at their guide. “Where to next?”

Auror Queenscove inspected Claire’s letter, thinking hard. “Well, we _could_ go for a pet next,” he suggested.

“I have Emmy,” Claire piped up at once.

The light-brown head nodded in solemn agreement and the Auror flourished an invisible quill. “Got a pet,” he announced, checking the pet off the list. “Let’s see…we still need uniforms, a cauldron, a set of phials, brass scales, a telescope.” He paused for effect, considering the list. “Oh!” He turned with a wink and a grin. “And a wand.”

“Wand last,” Daddy decided. Claire pouted, but understood; her sisters would be too rowdy after she got her wand to do any more shopping. “Let’s take care of the uniform next.”

Auror Queenscove shuddered dramatically. “Merlin, you like to live _dangerously_ , Constable Wordsworth.”

* * * * *

The bell above the door tinkled as the group entered. Ally was being carried by her mother and Lilly had managed to maneuver herself into a similar position in her father’s arms. The shop, small, but neat, was a far cry from Ollivanders. Rather than having wands stacked from floor to ceiling, the wands were arranged on a number of shelves around the store’s outer walls. The counter was in the middle of the store’s rear wall and two employees were already assisting other customers. Glancing around, Wordy was reminded more of a small shoe store – several wands were on display in silent testimony to the store’s various types of wands and their equally varied crafting methods.

One of the customers found his wand with a shower of pale purple sparks; he quickly paid for his wand and departed with a swish of his robes. The newly free employee approached the Wordsworths, his eyes already on Claire. Addressing her directly, he asked, “First wand?”

“Yes, sir,” Claire replied, her chin coming up.

The wizard’s expression turned thoughtful and he guided them over to the one area of the store that had no wands at all. Rather, it was stocked with a number of wooden dowels and small vials. He pointed Claire to a spot right in front of the shelves and reached past her to pick up the dowels. One by one, he handed them to Claire, flicking his wand around her and studying the results intently. His expression started at one dowel, but he continued through the stack until Claire had tried them all. Once Claire was done with the woods, the employee had her pick up several of the vials, though Wordy noticed that he didn’t have her try all of them. Instead, she picked up vials until their guide nodded thoughtfully at his results and shepherded them to a shelf of wands.

The wizard sorted through the wands, then lifted the first one clear of its box and held it out. Claire took the wand and gave it a tentative wave. Her father winced as a crack appeared in the wood shelf, but the employee simply flicked his own wand to repair it and took the wand back from Claire. The second wand practically backfired in Claire’s hands, prompting a quick snatch to keep the wand from tumbling to the ground. The third wand didn’t even react at all and Claire’s disappointment was easy to read. The fourth and fifth wands swiftly went the way of their predecessors, drawing a frown from the wizard helping them.

He considered the wands as he packed the last up and returned the box to its shelf. A germ of an idea sparked in his eyes and the wizard departed, returning with a polished box that had a near satin finish to it. Carefully, he opened the box and drew the wand inside it out.

Claire’s eyes went wide at the beautiful pale wood of the wand; she reached for it without an ounce of hesitation. The wizard slipped the wand into her hand and stepped back. Claire gazed down at the wand, smiling fiercely. A simple wrist flick brought a wave of pale blue sparks; Emmy flitted out from her hiding spot to cheep congratulations as the wand gleamed in the shop’s ambient light.

For his part, Wordy inspected the wand, mentally whistling at the smooth, clean lines of the wood. When Claire surrendered her wand, he spied a design burned into the handle: a Celtic spiral flowed around the whole of the handle; it was capped at each end with a dark ring. Just below the spiral, a thin carved line danced up the length of the handle. Above and below the two dark rings, the handle was further set apart by carved rings. The wand’s pommel consisted of a simple polished orb and, aside from the Celtic spiral and the dark rings, the wand’s wood was pale, with a fine grained look to it.

“Very good, young lady,” the shopkeep declared as he closed the box up. “Ash with a Horned Serpent horn core, ten and five-eighths inches, flexible. A very loyal wand, if I may say so, and quite powerful in the right hands.”

Claire didn’t really hear the man’s words, she was still staring at her wand, even though it was hidden inside its box. Wordy, though, shifted uncomfortably; a ‘loyal’ wand was one thing, but powerful? Powerful tended to attract attention and the big constable would’ve much preferred for his children to keep their heads down. Then again, they _were_ Wordsworths…

“How much?” the reluctant father asked.

“Seven Galleons,” was the prompt reply.

Wordy passed over the gold and coaxed his family out the shop. Outside, he and Neal shook hands. “Thanks for all your help, Neal.”

Neal waved off the thanks. “Makes a nice change in routine,” he countered. “And all sanctioned, too. I’ll tell Amy you said ‘hi’.”

As the wizard wandered off, Wordy shook his head in amusement, then traded a look with Shelley. “Home?”

“Home,” she agreed softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of Claire's books are straight from _Harry Potter_ canon (or unnamed), but one hails from dunuelos's "Lone Traveler: Professor of Defense" on Fanfiction.net. All credit to dunuelos for that book.
> 
> I'm still no artist, so I went back to PraeclarusWands on Deviantart to pick out a lovely wand for Claire. The wand that Claire's wand is based on is the "Celtic Spiral" (FB-494i). As with Lance and Alanna's wands, full credit goes to PraeclarusWands for the wand design.


	3. Part of Your Worlds

Wordy was dreading the conversation, but it needed to happen. Sooner rather than later. He just _hated_ being the one to shatter some of his daughter’s innocence and child-like faith in people. And he hated even more that she was going to have to live with the same burden he did; if he’d thought there was even a _prayer_ of keeping his daughters from finding out about his blood family, he’d’ve taken the truth to his grave. Sadly, he knew better; they’d find out whether or not he told them. Better that they hear it from him instead of from someone outside the family.

And so, Constable Wordsworth did what he _absolutely_ did _not_ want to do and took his daughter aside for a private chat. The two of them went out to the garage and Wordy found two chairs, setting them at right angles. Claire slipped into the smaller chair, drawing a smile from her father.

“How was your day?” Wordy asked, sliding onto his own chair.

“Good,” Claire replied shyly, looking up at her father with shining brown eyes. “Auror Queenscove was really nice.”

Her words earned a soft chuckle. “He’s young enough that he remembers what it’s like to be going off to school for the first time,” the constable teased.

Doubt shone in Claire’s eyes, but she was smart enough not to voice that doubt; her father would tease her for _hours_ once he won the argument.

Wordy drew in a deep breath, wondering where to start. Then, tentatively, he asked, “Claire, do you remember when we went to the goblins and found out that both your Mom and I have magical relatives?”

“Uh-huh,” Claire replied, a touch of eagerness entering her face. “And the goblin wouldn’t tell us who _your_ family was.”

Her father’s grimace was unfeigned and he floundered, trying to find a good way…but there wasn’t, not really. “Well, honey, the reason Silnok didn’t want you and your sisters to hear who I’m related to is because it’s…complicated.” He drew in another breath.

“Dad?” Claire studied him closely. “You don’t have to tell me, Daddy.”

“No, I do,” Wordy refuted softly. “But thanks, kiddo.” Oh, Lord, this was harder than being hit with the _Cruciatus_ curse. “Listen, Claire, you know that we love you very much, right? Me, your Mom, and your grandparents.”

Claire shrank back. “I’m not your daughter?”

The constable jerked in horror. “What? No! You are!” He pulled her close in a hug, tucking her under his chin. His eyes closed in grief. “I’m not doing this right, am I?”

She laughed, but there was fear in her voice.

Praying for strength, Wordy started again. “Did you know I was born nine months after your grandparents went to Britain on vacation?”

Claire shook her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

A tear slipped free. “Claire…what your inheritance test showed…what Silnok didn’t want to tell you and your sisters…your Grandpa…isn’t your Grandpa.”

The little girl pulled back, looking up into tear-filled eyes. “Daddy?”

Wordy fought back his tears and a fledgling sob strangled in his throat. “Your real grandfather,” he choked out, “He was a bad wizard who didn’t care that your Grandma was already married. He didn’t care that your Grandma didn’t know him at all.”

He saw the moment when it clicked, when Claire’s eyes filled with tears, shock radiating from her small frame. He pulled her close and let his tears flow, mixing with hers. And for a long time, neither spoke again.

* * * * *

“Why did he hurt Grandma?” Claire finally asked, pain radiating from her voice. She still clung to her Daddy and she could feel him trembling.

“I wish I knew, sweetheart,” Dad replied, sorrow aching and wrenching the air around them. “He died a long time ago, Claire, so I don’t think we’ll ever know _why_ he did it.” He bit his lip. “But he might’ve done it because your Grandma and Grandpa don’t have magic.”

Fury and indignation flared up, hot as a rocket. “Why does _that_ matter?” Claire demanded.

Her father’s laugh was bitter, angry. “Some wizards think their magic makes them better, Claire. They think that anyone who comes from the tech side of the fence is _less_ than they are. Less intelligent, less talented.” He hesitated, then added quietly, “Claire…your mother and I can’t go to your new school at all.”

“Why?”

He shook his head slowly. “Because the school has wards to keep people who don’t have enough magic out.” For a moment, her Daddy looked old, tired, and worn. “And we won’t be able to come to any school events, either, honey.”

“That’s not fair!”

A watery chuckle. “I know,” he agreed. “It’s not fair, but there’s nothing we can do to change it, Claire. I wish we could.”

Claire sniffled, but a thought struck her. “Does Grandpa know?”

Dad froze an instant, then he hung his head. “Yes, Claire, your Grandpa knows,” he admitted. “Grandma knows, too. They found out when I was growing up.”

The little girl frowned, looking up at her father. A thought struck her. “Daddy? Does your _real_ Daddy look like Grandpa?”

He scowled, but not at her. Slowly, he cocked his head to the side, his face shifting as he thought. It took several minutes, but he shook his head. “No, Claire, he doesn’t. Why?”

Claire chewed her lip, thinking for a minute herself. “Because you look like Grandpa,” she finally replied.

Daddy jerked in shock. “I…I _look_ like Grandpa?” he repeated, his expression stunned.

“You do, Kevin.” Father and daughter twisted to look at Claire’s mother, standing in the garage doorway. She smiled at them. “Believe me, Kevin. You look more like your father than _that man_.”

* * * * *

He _looked_ like his father? Wordy felt as if he’d just been hit with a sledgehammer. How could he resemble a man who wasn’t even _related_ to him? And yet, Shelley was holding out a picture. Wordy took it and lowered it so Claire could see it too. Himself and his father, standing side-by-side and grinning for all they were worth at the camera. His father _must_ have known by then that his ‘son’ was really another man’s child, but there was no trace of strain in his face. There never had been, the son realized. Not when he was growing up and not now with his children.

Gingerly, Wordy’s finger traced the smiling pair, his eyes trailing over the unmistakable resemblance between the two. But how? Maybe, _maybe_ , Wild Magic was capable of something like that, but his smiling younger self was _years_ away from even _meeting_ the kids, much less be affected by their magic. No matter how much love his chosen father had for him, love couldn’t change genetics. Could it?

His eyes lowered to Claire and he resisted the urge to flinch. He still had to tell her the rest…

* * * * *

Shelley hovered, giving both her husband and daughter all the support she could as Kevin drew in a deep breath and faced their daughter. “There’s more,” he murmured.

“More?”

Sadly, Kevin nodded. “I…I have two half-brothers.”

Her eyes lit up. “Can I meet them?”

Frantically, Kevin shook his head and Shelley restrained a horrified gasp at the very thought.

Disappointment and a new trace of fear shone in Claire’s eyes. “Are they like… _him_?” she whispered.

“They are,” Kevin confirmed sorrowfully. “They’re bad guys, Claire.” He stopped, studying his oldest daughter. “Claire…my half-brothers are in prison for…hurting some people really badly.”

Claire crossed her arms with a pout at his deliberate vagueness. “You don’t want me to know what they did,” she accused.

“Not yet,” Kevin agreed without hesitation. Surprised, Claire looked up at him. “Sweetheart, what they did was really, _really_ bad and you’re just too young.”

The lower lip jutted out even further and Kevin shook his head, reaching out to run his hand over Claire’s hair. “Listen to me, kiddo. Silnok didn’t want you and your sisters to hear about any of this from _him_ ; he thought it was _our_ choice – your mother and I. And right now, I’m making the choice that it’s enough for you to know the basics. I’ll tell you more when you’re older, okay?”

Claire’s pout grew more pronounced and she huddled up on her chair, scowling at the far wall of the garage.

Shelley swept over and drew her daughter up in a hug. “I agree with your father, Claire,” she murmured. “I know it’s hard to wait, especially when you want to know _right now_ , but some things we just have to wait for.” The blonde poked Claire’s arm. “And Claire, this isn’t something we even _wanted_ to tell you, but you can’t hide secrets like this. Not for long.”

She could see that Claire didn’t really understand, not yet, but her daughter nodded stiffly nonetheless. Shelley and Kevin traded looks, then she nodded once and headed back to the kitchen, leaving her husband to talk to their daughter a bit longer.

* * * * *

Wordy bit back a sigh as he regarded Claire. She was still pouting over his refusal to tell her what his half-brothers had done, but there was still one more thing they had to talk about. But Claire wasn’t likely to listen to him just yet, so the constable settled back in his chair and watched his daughter, waiting for her to calm down a bit and stop pouting. It took some time, but as the silence lingered, Claire’s pout grew less pronounced, particularly when she realized her father was quietly waiting for her to finish sulking.

The young girl looked up at her father, her lower lip still jutting out, but there was curiosity too. And still Wordy waited, watching his daughter closely. When she consented to scoot closer to him again, the big man rested his hand on her shoulder and tucked her close.

“You’re going to do just fine,” he told her firmly. “Not even the kids from all magic families learn magic before going to school. And if you need help, Lance and Alanna are just a phone call away, all right?”

“M’kay, Daddy.”

“But there _is_ something I’d like you to do, Claire.” Wordy waited for his daughter to peek up at him. Gently, he poked her chest, right above her heart. “I want you to remember where you come from, Claire.”

“Where I come from?”

A half-grin. “Technically speaking, Claire, you’re a pureblood. _I’m_ a Squib and your mother is Squib-born. Magic on both sides. But you’re also tech-born.”

Claire’s eyes went wide as she absorbed this. “You mean, everyone’s going to think I’m tech-born?”

Wordy tilted his chin down in confirmation. “And they’re right, Claire. You _are_ tech-born.”

The girl’s lip was jutting out again, but this time in thought. “I’m from both sides,” she whispered.

“ _Exactly_. And I don’t want you to forget about the tech world. Not now, not _ever_. Most of the kids from tech-born families leave their families behind, Claire. They start thinking like the purebloods – they think having magic makes them _better_.”

Confusion shone as Claire looked up. “It doesn’t?”

Wordy shook his head, unsurprised that Claire had already picked up on a bit of that attitude. “Magic is a _talent_ ,” he emphasized firmly. “And I _want_ you to develop that talent, take it as far as you can, Claire, but at the end of the day, it’s no different from any other talent.” He paused, thinking hard. “I bet you have classmates that are really good at math,” the constable observed, picking a subject he knew Claire struggled with.

Claire shrugged.

“Do some of them have trouble with history?” Wordy questioned, switching to his daughter’s favorite subject.

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, let’s say history is magic and math is technology. They’re different, but is one better than the other?”

The young girl thought hard, struggling to grasp what her father was trying to tell her. Wordy sighed internally. Maybe he was asking too much to expect Claire to see magic and technology as equals – she _was_ an eleven-year-old girl who’d grown up with fairy tales, loving them even _before_ they found out magic was _real_.

But… An idea sparked. Gently, Wordy tipped Claire’s chin up. “Okay, what if Ally turns out to not have any magic? Alanna _did_ say she wasn’t completely sure if Ally has magic. Does that mean you and Lilly are better than Ally?”

“No!” Claire burst out, shocked and horrified. And just like that, it clicked into place. “But the purebloods think so?” she asked plaintively.

A solemn nod. “I told you my team isn’t working with wizards any more, right?”

A shaky return nod.

“Well, that’s because they decided they were so much better than us that it didn’t matter if we were put in dangerous situations. After all,” Wordy packed scorn into his voice, “we’re _just_ ‘Muggles’.” He paused, then added the kicker. “When they did that, they put some Auror trainees in danger, too. It didn’t matter that most of those trainees were purebloods…all that mattered was getting rid of _us_.”

“But why? Why would they do that, Dad?”

The big man shook his head. “I wish I knew, Claire,” he admitted quietly. “It hurt, realizing that they were willing to go that far just to get us out of the picture.” But at least he hadn’t been the one who’d had to make that final call. Even better, he knew Holleran had been the one to put his foot down, taking the decision away from Sarge. Shifting back to Claire, he asked, “Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you, honey?”

“You want me to know how to be on both sides, right? Both magic _and_ technology.”

Wordy beamed. “ _Exactly_.” He grinned at her. “Most of your homework is going to be magic – and that’s okay, honey! But I want to see the homework from your non-magical subjects, Claire. You’re going to have the best opportunities your mother and I can give you, you and your sisters.” The father met his daughter’s gaze. “It’s going to be hard, but I _know_ you can handle it, sweetheart. You can do anything you put your mind to, remember?”

Claire’s expression was rather uncertain, but she nodded nonetheless.

Wordy drew her close in a hug. “All right, lecture over,” he teased. “Go on, get outta here and have some fun.” As she beamed at him, then darted off, the brunet watched her go, hoping, _praying_ , that it was enough. Enough to get her off on the right foot without compromising her bright, innovative spirit or her innocent joy in the magic.

“Knock ‘em dead, kiddo,” he whispered, his smile turning wistful.


	4. Old Magic Rising

Claire was all but bouncing as Lance and Alanna slipped into the living room. Their uncle was a silent sentinel, his hazel eyes serious; the siblings knew he didn’t approve of what they were planning to do, but he did understand their reasons. He wouldn’t help, but he wouldn’t stop them either. Uncle Wordy’s gaze shifted between his unhappy boss and the Calvin teenagers, wariness sparking in his gray orbs.

“Something up, Sarge?” Uncle Wordy asked carefully.

Uncle Greg gestured to Lance and Alanna, but remained silent.

It was Alanna who spoke, her chin tilting up with an ember of defiance on her face. “When we went back to Shiloh, some of our classmates wanted us to show them how to use Old Magic.”

Uncle Wordy started. “I thought only _you two_ could use Old Magic,” he blurted.

“Wild Magic,” Lance corrected. “That’s what we were born with; we _can’t_ teach that, but we _can_ teach Old Magic.”

Alanna nodded firmly. “We wouldn’t teach anyone the Old _Religion_ , but Old Magic? Our family used to _specialize_ in teaching people how to use the ancient spells, even though Camelot was long past.”

Claire squealed in excitement. “I can learn how to do magic like _you_ do?”

Lance’s expression was almost as serious as Uncle Greg’s. “Not at first,” he replied at once. “It would probably take you over a year before you could even do one or two spells reliably. Old Magic is much harder than Latin magic, plus it needs more power.”

“Power that would have to come from your magical core,” Alanna cut in, her words weaving smoothly with her brother’s. “No wands with Old Magic – wands can’t handle the power flow.”

“Over a year?” Uncle Wordy echoed, confused. “But you two…”

Both siblings grimaced. “Our Wild Magic gives us an edge,” Alanna explained. She paused, considering how to elaborate. After several seconds, she offered, “It’s a bit like learning another language from someone who’s a native speaker.”

Lance cleared his throat. “That’s not all,” he tacked on. “From what we’ve been able to learn from Merlin, the first year was always the slowest year for new practitioners of the Old Religion. And most hedgewizards couldn’t do more than a few spells, even after years of study.”

Uncle Wordy thought that over. “So…Claire will only be able to do a few spells?”

Alanna shrugged. “No way to know right now,” she replied, pushing a stray lock of hair behind one ear. “We won’t know until she starts learning – if you’re willing to let her,” she hastily finished.

Claire bounced eagerly, tossing pleading, hopeful looks at her father. “ _Pleeeaaase_ , Daddy, _please_.”

The constable lifted his hand, a scowl appearing. “Claire.” The warning note in his voice silenced his daughter at once. Turning back to Alanna and Lance, Uncle Wordy questioned, “If any one finds out she can use Old Magic…?”

His question hung, the implications pointed. The two Wild Mages sank down in their seats, Alanna looking down at her hands in quiet shame. Lance forced himself to answer. “If Claire learns the Old Magic and someone finds out…they’ll assume she’s a Wild Mage.”

* * * * *

For a fleeting moment, Wordy wished his hair was longer – so he could yank it out in pure frustration. Claire, picking up on the fear and tension in the room, stopped her bouncing and her eager, hopeful expression faded away. And yet…he’d seen for himself how the Old Magic could trump Latin magic without hardly trying. Lou’s impossible rescue, Jules recovering her memory right after the Healers wrote it off as hopelessly lost, Sarge’s just as impossible rescue from the Netherworld…the list went on and on and on.

But…Sarge’s kids were outcasts, all but banished from the world they’d been born to because of their magic. If…no… _when_ …Claire was discovered, would the same thing happen to _her_? How could he do that to his children? How could he set them up for that kind of hate, that kind of ostracization? No matter _what_ the advantages were, he couldn’t do that to his girls.

Just as he was about to speak, refusing to let Claire or, indeed, _any_ of his daughters learn Old Magic, the little glass hummingbird fluttered into the room in search of Claire. It chittered in delight, swooping down to Claire; his daughter giggled and laughed as Emmy twittered and flitted around her for several seconds before landing on Claire’s outstretched finger.

“Lion’s Mane,” Alanna breathed, staring at the hummingbird; Emmy returned the Wild Mage’s regard, a curious glass-like trill emerging from the small creature.

_Oh, no,_ Wordy realized, freezing in horror at the look on the redhead’s face. _Oh, no, no, no._

Alanna flinched at his expression, huddling in on herself, and Wordy didn’t need to look to know Sarge had shifted to attention with a deadly glare, his protective uncle instincts roaring to life and leaving his protective sergeant instincts in the dust.

“Alanna?” Wordy asked carefully, waiting for violet eyes to shift up, “Is Claire already using Old Magic?”

To Wordy’s everlasting shock, it was _Sarge_ who answered, not either of the kids. “She’s used it already, Wordy.” At his subordinate’s askance look, Sarge added, “She used it to save your life.”

For a breath, Wordy didn’t understand – and then he did. Anderson kidnapping Claire and young Amanda Simmons. Himself finding the girls – and promptly ending up disarmed. Claire somehow, some _way_ , summoning his Narnian weapons. Accidental magic…accidental _Old Magic_.

_Now_ he understood. Ironically, the school rep had been absolutely right…Emmy _was_ the result of accidental magic. The only question was, had it been _just_ Claire? Or was Emmy a combination of all three Wordsworth girls’ magic? His throat rasped as he asked, “Lilly? Ally?”

Alanna cocked her head, thinking through the rather cryptic question, then she rose and crossed to Claire, calling softly to the hummingbird. “Come here, little one,” she coaxed. Emmy chirped and hovered up, her wings blurring as she flew to Alanna. The redhead cupped her hands, whispering something under her breath. Emmy’s wings blurred faster and she twittered in clear delight before lowering enough to reach her head into Alanna’s cupped hands. Wordy thought he spotted a long glass tongue before the hummingbird leaned her head forward enough to hide her beak from sight.

Emmy hovered in place, not appearing to notice the shimmer of violet magic playing around her. For his part, Wordy watched the magic intently, suppressing a cringe as the violet slowly turned to three new colors: light blue, sea green, and teal. A tiny flicker of a darker blue hovered at the very edge, but the three colors dominated. Three. It didn’t take a math genius to put the pieces together. Nor did it take long for the dismayed father to realize his decision had just been made for him. His girls were _already_ using Old Magic, albeit in small, accidental ways. If he refused to let them learn, at _best_ , their fledgling talents would remain as they were. At _worst_ , their abilities would grow, but without the knowledge or training in how to _control_ their talents…Wordy shuddered at the very thought.

Emmy finished drinking and flitted up, cheeping and twittering her thanks. Alanna smiled at the small glass creature, reaching out to stroke the bird. Emmy leaned her head into the petting, black eyes closing in what looked like bliss. “How real is she?” Shelley asked from the doorway, leaning in to watch the delicate creation.

The redhead looked up. “She’s still glass,” came the quiet reply. “But otherwise? She’s as real as it gets.” One shoulder hiked. “You’re going to need a hummingbird feeder if you’re keeping her.”

“What do we put in it?” Shelley pushed. “Hummingbird food?”

Another shrug. “For starters, yeah. Hopefully, she can eat it. Otherwise…” Alanna’s jaw tightened in thought. “Maybe…the ingredients to make glass?” she offered.

“We’ll figure it out,” Shelley reassured the young Wild Mage. “I’ll start simple.” Turning towards her husband, the blonde hiked a brow and gave him a _Look_.

Wordy grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t suppose there’s any way to just…learn a little?”

Lance shook his head sorrowfully. “The best we could do is stick to the simple stuff. But really, the more you learn…”

“…the better you get,” Wordy finished for him. And to tell his daughter she could learn ‘this much’ and no more…it would backfire on him. On _them_. His gaze shifted to Claire. “I’m putting limits on this,” he warned her firmly. Leaning forward, he looked her right in the eye. “This type of magic is not a toy, Claire. I don’t want to see you using what you learn to taunt your sisters with.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

A nod. “In fact, I don’t want to see you using this at _all_ unless you’re with Lance and Alanna.”

“Absolutely,” Lance cut in, his gaze serious. “Until you get basic mastery down, don’t even _try_ any Old Magic spells without me or Alanna here.”

That the teenager was using his sister’s full name spoke to how serious he was, but Wordy let his stern gaze do all the talking for him. As soon as Lance shifted back, the constable took over again. “Do _not_ let any of your classmates find out you’re learning magic that’s not in the textbooks, young lady.”

A pout was starting to appear. “Then when _can_ I use it?” Claire whined.

“An emergency,” Wordy decided. “And your schoolwork comes _first_ , understand?”

Though Claire acquiesced, Wordy was well aware that the fight was far from over. And unfortunately, Shelley would have to be the parent who kept Claire on the straight and narrow. But it was essential if they were going to have a _prayer_ of keeping Claire’s classmates in the dark.

Wordy’s gaze shifted to the small, delicate hummingbird and a shiver went up his back. In the end, Claire’s secret wasn’t in his hands, or Shelley’s hands, or even Claire’s own hands. If anyone bothered to investigate the glass bird, the jig would be up in a heartbeat. And all he could do was pray that didn’t happen.

Not now. Not _ever_.

* * * * *

Granny Cantril smiled as her weaving reached its end. A glass bird, its wings blurring as it hovered, with three distinct shades of magic swirling around it. Three young witches in the making. Witches who would be taught the ways of _Narnia_ , taught that magic is a _tool_ , with limits just like any other tool. No better nor worse than any other type of tool. True, the Lion’s Heirs were facing trials and tribulations because of their magic – their heritage – but the old hag well knew the Lion would not leave them to flounder for long. In truth, they were better off being away from the hate and disdain of the magical world. Away from manmade limits and cruel misconceptions.

“Will we ever see them again?” Brightpaw whined from his spot at her side.

“Peace, little one,” Granny Cantril chided. “If the Lion wills it, we will. It does not do to rush Him, child.”

The wolf pup whimpered again, curling up to watch the loom’s work. He missed the Lion-touched he’d met, as did Granny Cantril. Oh, she knew her decision had been necessary to protect her people, but she still regretted their swift departure from Toronto before finding out if the young Lion-touched had been restored to herself. The gossip of the wizarding world had filled the gap, giving them brief, tantalizing glimpses of the city that had been their home for some months, but it was like seeing a banquet table and only being allowed the scraps.

A shimmer of light danced around the loom, skittering over the fabric before it vanished again. Both hag and wolf pup drew back; Granny Cantril was achingly hesitant as she reached out to touch the fabric. The woven image pulsed when its maker touched it, but the magic was a calm, comforting hum rather than a vengeful, zealous punishment. Both Fell Creatures jerked back again, fearful and wary, when a whisper filled the air.

_Wait on Me and I will answer._

Brightpaw yelped, fleeing under Granny Cantril’s chair, his fur puffed out and trembling in his terror. Though Granny Cantril felt the same fear, it was overlaid by a burgeoning hope. For the first time since her banishment from the dying Narnia, the Lion had _spoken_ to her. The hag bowed her head. “As You will, my Lord,” she whispered.

The still, small whisper was almost impossible to hear; Granny Cantril leaned forward, intent on catching every word. _I have not forgotten you, the lost children of Narnia,_ the whisper promised. _Follow Me and I will provide._

For several breaths, the air itself fell silent, then the rustle of the trees filled the air again, along with the sounds and bustle of the camp. Brightpaw remained under Granny Cantril’s chair, his fear almost palpable, but the hag felt invigorated, alive as she hadn’t been over the course of her entire life. Forgiveness, once so far out of her grasp, was suddenly just within reach, so close as to be almost tangible.

The Old Magic, so close to dying out forever, was rising once more. In persecuting and driving the last of the Old Magic out of the wizarding world, the pureblood bigots had all but _ensured_ its return. It would take time, _years_ , for the Magic to truly return, but it would. From a single seed, trees both great and small grew; from tiny beginnings, the greatest of changes came.

Granny Cantril turned back to her loom, swiftly finishing off the edge of her weaving and removing it from the loom. New spools of thread sprang to her hands and the hag began to set up her next weaving. The Lion was on the move and she needed to be ready when He landed.

“Come, young one,” the hag called to the wolf pup, “We have much to do and precious little time in which to do it.”

Brightpaw slipped out from under her chair. “What’s coming, Granny Cantril?”

“Not _what_ , Brightpaw,” Granny Cantril corrected, “ _Who_.” She drew in a deep, bracing breath. “The Lion calls and we will answer.” Sharp dark eyes lowered to her companion. “Call for Maxus and inform him to ready the camp. When the Lion summons us, we _must_ be ready.”

The wolf pup raced away; the hag smiled to herself as she teased another thread out of its spool. “May you live in interesting times,” she murmured under her breath. The Chinese considered that phrase a curse, but Granny Cantril did not agree. To live in interesting times was an _opportunity_ , not a curse.

_Aslan is on the move._

_~ Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving from 2019 everyone! On this day, I thank God for all that he's given me: a home, a job, hobbies to enjoy, and stories to write. I also thank Him for each one of you out there reading this, but especially those who probably never will read this note: my family. Don't worry, my immediate family isn't gone, but they don't read my stories online.
> 
> May the Lord go with each of you in your own lives and light the path you should travel, no matter what you're facing.


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